


Shield

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [31]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lagertha finds her strength and protection is needed off the battlefield as well as on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shield

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the end of 2x09. Follows [Home is not a Place](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2031972)

Lagertha had spent most of her life living up to the strength of the men around her. Life was brutal for a woman, no matter who you were, and she learned at a young age that standing up to that brutality with some of her own was the best way to survive. In time, most men came to respect her, and the ones who did not rarely lived long enough to continue their disrespect. That reputation meant some of the men respected her merely out of fear, but many others, including the man she first married and whose children she bore, respected her as an equal, not as an enemy.

Women were harder. Her fellow shieldmaidens flocked to her like starlings, eager to learn from her and to pass on her teachings to others, but they didn't often want to know the parts of her that lay behind the shield. Conversely, women who had chosen more peaceful paths sometimes found her perplexing. They had meetings of the minds on many things—the needs of raising children were universal, and the steady rhythms of weaving bound more than fibers—but she found it hard to get truly close to them. They seemed confused, unsure of whether to relate to her as a fellow woman, with open hearts and easy laughter, or as a man, with the subtle deference and undercurrent of wariness they had learned as girls. Fighting among her fellow warriors, whether male or female, she felt kinship, but day-to-day life off the battlefield was often strange and lonely.

Perhaps this was why she had come to love the priest. Athelstan, too, straddled worlds as she did. Not just in culture, trying to find his way between disparate languages and gods, but in finding a space among men and women in which he belonged. His homeland had a place for soft men like him—clad in roughspun brown, speaking their prayers in hushed tones—but there was no such thing for him here. He took to his slavery too readily; acquiesced to orders too blithely. Though he wanted and had gained his legal freedom, he had seen no loss of pride in being a thrall. He feared the potential consequences of disobeying, but beyond that, he seemed naturally to fall into a role of helper. He was, in short, much like the women who could or would not take up a shield, and instead held their ground at the hearth, the loom, and the birthing bed. Over time, as he shed his monk's robes and fell in line with the world into which he had been thrust, he seemed to discover a well of virility—indeed, Ragnar had told her that the priest had become quite a warrior while she was away—but much of his softness remained, and she found it endearing.

He had come to their camp in priestly garb, riding an ass, of all things, and endured insults that would have earned an axe to the neck from other men. Yet there was no shame in his face. There was fear, yes (and rightly so), grief and longing, and a hint of something more—something broken—but no shame. He seemed somewhat stronger, if scarred and worn, and had a streak of courage and determination with which she was unfamiliar, yet he still had a gentle heart.

Looking at him now, minding Ragnar's young sons while Aslaug attended the guests in the great hall, her heart ached, wishing he could somehow have come with her when she left Ragnar, and watched as Bjorn became a man. Bjorn had wished that, too. As often as he grieved the death of his sister and the estrangement from his father, he murmured sad words about missing the man whom he had, in the fire of his adolescence, once treated with contempt. But Athelstan's place was always by the side of Ragnar, whether he was free or no, and thus he had come to play the same role for Aslaug and her children that he had once played for Lagertha's family. Without children to mind or a home and farm to tend, he likely never could play that role for her again, and she felt that loss keenly. Still, she considered, there might be something left for her.

Ubbe pulled Hvitserk away to play with the goats, and Athelstan was suddenly alone. On their return, Ragnar had rarely left his side, hovering protectively over him and shooting threatening stares at anyone who might challenge his right to be with them. But Ragnar was now occupied himself, trying to help the healer save his brother. She looked around: Torstein was, as usual, halfway into a barrel of ale. Floki was nowhere to be seen—likely off with Helga. Her son, of course, was in a shadowy corner with his newly freed love, their heads and hands together. She felt her arm jerk up slightly, a phantom shield attached to it, and a flutter ran through her belly. Crossing the hall in great, determined strides, she was soon next to Athelstan, her body blocking the path between him and the caustic stares of Horik's men.

He favored her with a warm, welcoming smile. "My lady. Or should I call you Earl, now?" He dipped his head in deference.

She laughed lightly. "You may call me whatever you wish! You are not my subject. To you, I am your friend above all else."

"Thank you. I'm glad to hear that. It seems not everyone agrees." He glanced around the room.

"I know." Her jaw tightened. "They have created their own grief, however, in choosing against your friendship. They do not know what they have given up."

"That's very kind of you to say." He moved over on the bench on which he sat, giving her room. "Please, sit with me if you will."

"Of course." She perched on the edge, her body still tense and her senses fully aware of their surroundings. When it seemed the hostile gazes were thus deflected, she finally relaxed a little. "I did not get much of a chance to speak to you alone on the journey," she said, "but I wanted you to know I am pleased you came back. I have missed you dearly these many years, and I am happy to know that you are alive, and now but a short ride away, instead of being kept from me by forces less surmountable."

"I've missed you, too, my la—Lagertha. There will always be things I miss about England, but it never held the people I cared for most." He looked over at the children, who were now chasing each other around a nearby table. Hvitserk tripped, and cried out. Athelstan tensed, about to rise to tend to him, but Ubbe pulled the younger boy to his feet, and soon they were breathlessly tearing about the room again.

Lagertha sighed quietly. "Athelstan, I know that your place is here with Ragnar and his new family, but I hope that, as a free man, you might someday choose to visit me as well. While I have love for my new people, they are subjects—people I must lead—not familiar to me. I also miss my son every day since he has returned to Kattegat and soon I shall likely lose him forever." She nodded back over her shoulder to where he nuzzled the girl. "Your face in my hall would be a welcome comfort to me."

Athelstan brightened. "I would be delighted. I would like to see your home—to see the Earldom that you have made. You will have to tell me how you came by it, though I have no doubt you are quite the leader."

She chuckled. "It is not easy, but I manage. There are many whose trust and respect I have earned who help keep things running while I am away, but when I am there, there is much to do, and it is frequently tiring." Her eyes traveled over his face, settling on his mouth, and a mischevous idea, one she hadn't entertained in years, came to mind. "It doesn't help that I often don't sleep well, with only my cat to warm my bed," she groused.

"You have a cat?" He grinned. "I'm sure it's lovely."

"More like a soft-furred tyrant, but that is the charm of the beast. I think you'd get along well! Although you might have to compete for space."

"Space?"

"On the bed." She smiled significantly.

He cocked his head, but then his cheeks flushed and a nervous laugh escaped his throat. "Oh! I see. Well, I don't … I mean, Ragnar … That is—"

She dropped her voice to a purr. "Still sleeping only with your god?" His wide eyes grew even bigger, and he began stammering. After a moment, she took pity on him, nudging him with a shoulder. "Relax, friend. You are welcome in my bed regardless of whether all you want to do there is sleep. I would just like your company, however you wish to share it."

He let out a shaky breath. "Thank you. And you shall certainly have my company. That, I guarantee. At the least." He moved closer, his body angling into hers and their thighs touching. "It _is_ good to have you near again." Tentatively, he rested a hand on her knee.

She reached for the hand, stilling its trembling by folding it into both of her own, and they went quiet, idly watching the children as they enjoyed each other's presence. As she held his hand, she felt the scars that she had glimpsed on their journey home—the ones that made his hands stiffen and ache. An arrow wound, she had initially thought, but with its twin on the other side, that didn't seem quite right. Something told her not to ask about the details, so instead she simply stroked the raised marks, her rough fingertips gently tracing their edges. After a moment, Athelstan let out a tiny sound, a mewling like a baby just waking from a nap, and drew a shuddering breath. A well pooled in his eyes and he closed them tightly.

The designs she had had upon him suddenly paled, washed out as they were by her other instincts. She couldn't imagine what he might have been through, and wished, for the first time, to share with him what she had endured as well. But not now. For now, he needed the shieldmaiden, not the woman under the armor. The gods had made her strong thus, and so would she be for him.  

Tilting her chin up, she lightly kissed his cheek, her lips brushing away the thin, salty trail that trickled down. "I know you claim Ragnar as family, and he claims you, too," she murmured against his warm skin, "but so do I, and I will do so until the wolf has consumed all. Be still, Athelstan, and know that at least for this moment, with me, you are loved, you are safe, and you are home."   

 


End file.
